


LOVE4EVA

by sugandt



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Girl Band, Alternate Universe - Kpop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, K-pop References, Multi, Past Abuse, Pop Culture, Referenced Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugandt/pseuds/sugandt
Summary: Hilda Valentine, a pop industry veteran, gives an interview before her performance on Music Time and reflects on the past year's controversies. PRDE, I.Z.V, 1Love, Royal Flush, and Eclipse come back, and 4% debuts.“It’s been a while since your last variety show appearance,” Byleth begins, and her eyes, bright green from the contacts she wears, pierce into Hilda’s, “where have you been for so long?”Hilda knows how these interviews go. First, she’ll promote her new digital single, which will lead the interviewers into asking questions. They’ll play dancing games, have a heartfelt moment, make Hilda act embarrassingly cute for the camera, and wrap it up with a halfhearted performance of her song. It's a formula designed to work every time, so why ever change it?Hilda laughs dryly, “Well, I’m sure you both remember what happened last winter.”
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan/Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	LOVE4EVA

**Author's Note:**

> forewarning: i'm not a kpop idol, and i don't know first hand what they go through. for reference, i drew from a large number of groups i have been closely following since approximately 2012, as well as how i assume it would feel to have your life broadcasted for the world to see. 
> 
> check the notes in the end for this au's groups/members, and what i think are their kpop equivalents :)

“Valentine. Three minutes.”

Hilda Valentine glances down into her palm, where she holds a hand mirror, to make sure her makeup is still in place— false lashes expertly glued down, lips stained a true red colour. Pressing her lips together, she tastes the familiar flavour of manufactured cake batter and runs her tongue along her top teeth before baring them at the mirror to ensure she didn’t get the lip stain on them. Meanwhile, a technician hooks her up to a mic. He fastens it to her collar, Peter Pan style and baby pink in colour, with silver embroidery around the trim, then hovers a few paces away while making sure the mic works. 

On the other side of the door is the set she’s meant to be on for the next hour or so of recording, while she waits for her superiors, Byleth and Flayn, to introduce her. 

Someone grabs her shoulder, fingernails digging into her skin through the fabric of her blouse.

“One minute,” says the other producer, hand lifting off her shoulder, and Hilda passes them her mirror. She taps the mic twice, receives a thumbs up from the sound technician, and readjusts her position behind the set’s door. 

“Let’s see if you guys can guess who our special guest is today,” prompts Byleth, likely gesturing to the screen where a live feed of Twitter updates every few seconds. Hilda’s name comes up instantly.

“We’ll give you three hints!” Flayn says towards a camera, bubbling with energy, “she’s a solo artist.”

“She’s just released a new single based on her favourite colour.”

“And she’s _ALLIANCE_ ’s newest idol!”

Hilda closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. After a year-long hiatus, she’s finally found herself again. She pushes the set’s door open just far enough to stuck her head out and look both ways, a bright smile curling her lips upward.

“Are you talking about me?” Hilda asks innocently, giggling as she emerges from the doorway, and Byleth and Flayn both shout in excitement. 

After giving the cameras a wave, an air kiss, and time to pan up and down her outfit, she hugs both of the girls. Byleth smells like jasmine, so strong that it makes Hilda’s nose twitch when she gets too close to her neck. Flayn looks different; more childlike than usual. Hilda wonders if it’s her makeup, or something more permanent. It makes her more conscious of her own face, slimming from another trip around the sun combined with a procedure she got earlier in the year, courtesy of her company. 

“Hilda Valentine!”

“Hello, hello,” Hilda coos, laying it on thick to amp up the sweet concept she’s meant to go for during this round of promotions, “long time no see!”

Flayn sits her down on one of the chairs shaped like a cube, meant to imitate a modern style but it’s hard and uncomfortable and Hilda wonders if she’ll be able to sit through filming without fidgeting too much. Yesterday, Hilda filmed for _Vogue Fódlan_ , but it was just herself in a hotel bathroom, giving a bubbly makeup tutorial using products she’s paid to promote. It wasn’t an interview, not the way this is. Byleth hands her an itchy blanket to place on her lap in the event that her skirt rides too far up and the audience sees her safety shorts. Wouldn’t that be a scandal? She unfolds the blanket and sets it on her thighs. 

Flayn nods enthusiastically, and she has a particular gleam in her eyes that tells Hilda that she’s an original fan of hers, or she doesn’t have much experience hosting. Most interviewers, if they’re fans, are instructed to keep their personal preferences at bay, which takes training. It’s not bothersome— Flayn is young and smart and too eloquent for her age. She won’t cause trouble. She tosses a ringlet of jade coloured hair over her shoulder, and shuffles the pile of cards in her hands. 

“It’s been a while since your last variety show appearance,” Byleth begins, and her eyes, bright green from the contacts she wears, pierce into Hilda’s, “where have you been for so long?”

Hilda knows how these interviews go. First, she’ll promote her new digital single, which will lead the interviewers into asking questions. They’ll play dancing games, have a heartfelt moment, make Hilda act embarrassingly cute for the camera, and wrap it up with a halfhearted performance of her song. It's a formula designed to work every time, so why ever change it?

Hilda laughs dryly, “Well, I’m sure you both remember what happened last winter.”

Last winter. Byleth and Flayn nod along.

Things were great, for the most part. Yes, _Goldn Entertainment_ may have dissolved her group a year prior without even consulting them first, and yes, she was doing just fine as a solo artist. She even had Claude by her side, who had the same thing happen to him and his former group. Lorenz, an ex-member of Claude’s group and son of a notable CEO, pitched the idea of having Claude and Hilda form a duo that was coming along perfectly, but an executive at _Goldn Entertainment_ thrust Lorenz into their group and suddenly it went even better. Two mini-albums later, and the three of them were thriving. 

Then the news broke. 

Hilda and Claude were a couple— and had been for nearly two years. Betrayed, _Goldn Ent_ cut them both loose. Hilda had been their idol for almost ten years, and _that_ is what broke the contract? Soon after, Lorenz, with his stupidly big heart, walked away, too. That’s what the international fans say, at least, and Hilda’s content letting them believe it.

“Lorenz, Claude, and I negotiated with many companies, before finding _ALLIANCE_ ,” Hilda explains, trying to keep it as vague as possible, leaving out the countless nights she spent bawling and clinging to the two, claiming they were doomed and never to work in the music industry again, “Right now, the three of us are debuting as soloists, but in the future, we’ll come back as 3L.”

“It must have been difficult,” Flayn empathizes, “Before Seteth and I met RheA, things often felt… hopeless.” 

It’s a moment of vulnerability that Hilda commends her for. So early in an interview to hit the emotional points! 

“It was,” Hilda agrees, remembering the nights in her apartment where she flipped through the photobooks of her own albums, branded with the Goldn Entertainment logo forever. She felt like she didn’t even belong to herself anymore, so detached from her past. She looked at her own, youthful smiling face, the shining makeup in the inner corner of her eyes and the expensive outfits she wore only a few times before they were never seen again. 

The chair hurts. She knows not to fidget. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Byleth says, and suddenly Hilda feels like she’s being burned alive. What the hell happened to interviewers in the past year? Why are they acting so humane? 

“It all worked out in the end!” Hilda puts the same smile on, the one from her old photo books, “That’s what matters.”

“Absolutely!” Flayn claps her hands together, “And you’re the first to release a new song! Please tell us about _Pink_!”

Finally. Hilda can do this. 

_Pink_ is a very personal song to me, because it allowed me to have a more hands-on experience with writing and production. 

That’s true. 

_Pink_ is what it means to perform femininity, but on my own terms.

Also true. 

_Pink_ is a bubblegum pop song that epitomizes the image I have worked for a decade to curate. 

_She_ doesn’t say the last part. 

Pink was also produced with a certain catchy choreography in mind. The fans love it, and it’s the most Hilda has felt like herself in years. 

“Wow,” says Byleth, but Hilda is unable to tell whether it’s sarcastic or if she means it, “Can you sing the chorus for us?”

“Right now?” Hilda looks around nervously like she’s taken aback by the question, “Well, if you insist!” 

+

Elsewhere, Edelgard von Hresvelg strips herself of her athletic clothes and steps into the too-small shower of Royal Flush’s shared dorm. It’s scalding hot and her hair itches from her sweat, but she’s not allowed to wash it today, so she rubs her scalp with her clean hands and a bit of Dorothea’s essential oil blend. 

“Me next!” Dorothea pleads from outside, her voice booming even though she doesn’t mean for it to, “Don’t use all the hot water!”

Edelgard peeks out from behind the shower curtain, realizing that she didn’t even bother to shut the door. Whatever. They’ve all seen each other at their most vulnerable before. It’s just what happens when three women live in a tiny apartment with one bathroom. 

“No promises,” teases Edelgard, wondering how she still has the energy to be playful. 

She washes quickly, and hardly has the towel around herself before Dorothea’s throwing her nightgown on the floor and stepping in. Petra squeezes her way into the bathroom as well, sharing the mirror and sink with Edelgard as they go through their makeup-artist-approved skincare routine. Toner, emulsion, moisturizer, oil, facial mist, under-eye patches, lip masks, serum. It’s important to have a good base. Skin first. Your makeup is only as good as your skin. All of the advice she’s been given melts together, at this point. 

“Edie, you’re going to look so cute tonight,” Dorothea comments from inside the cramped shower, “I hope they put you in that crop top and skirt set.”

Edelgard knows the one. She saw it in their stylist’s arsenal of clothes during music video shooting. It might look good with thigh high stockings or a pair of tall boots. She can see the fancams already. Maybe one will go viral, and she’ll never have to worry about wiring money to her parents again. 

“I agree,” says Petra, wearing a sheet mask, so it sounds like she’s gritting her teeth. Edelgard grins, and smoothes down the nose flap on Petra’s mask, rubbing the serum into her fingers. 

“With a dark red lip,” Dorothea continues, “against your white hair? It’ll be like looking at the Goddess.”

“Oh, stop it,” Edelgard says, tapping her fingers around her eyes. The skin is delicate there, you know, you have to be gentle if you don’t want wrinkles. 

Petra, after wiping her hands on her thighs, helps Edelgard brush her hair. Before shooting their music video, Edelgard had her hair bleached white, and extensions were woven in, meaning she can’t brush her hair at the roots, or run her fingers through it like she used to. It’s a small price to pay for their vampiric aesthetic, which has them quickly shooting to the top of the charts. Their last comeback was a witch concept, in time for Halloween, and the one before that was royalty with a dark colour scheme.

The song made to the Top 40, and Edelgard wasn’t forced to do anything. She still thinks being in Royal Flush is surreal, a divine intervention to make up for the Hell that used to be her life. 

For three years, the now-dissolved company she was a trainee at had forced her to get inexpensive procedures; cellulite injections that left fist-sized bruises and caused her thighs to spasm for hours. A botched lip injection that used botox, rendering her bottom lip immovable for a year. An unsafe piercer came in and stabbed at her ears until they bled and oozed off-white puss. A manager that took a palm to her cheek when her voice cracked or her foot slipped during practice. And yet, she didn’t leave. 

How could she leave when her parents would never take her back? She betrayed them, left in the middle of the night to pursue, what she then thought, was a stupid dream. She found herself caught between a family that hated her and a company that wanted to tear her limb from limb, wanted to use her as a test subject to see how far they could push a person until they snapped. 

Six months, a mole, a therapist, and a Netflix documentary later, Edelgard was free. In light of the infamy she received from the documentary, hundreds of agencies reached out to her, and she felt the most drawn to two trainees at a larger, more reputable company. Petra came from Brigid, a small country overseas, and Dorothea shot to fame within a year of being scouted busking on the street. Her voice is just that good. This generation’s RheA, Edelgard thinks. When their group disbands, Dorothea will easily make it as a soloist. If their group disbands. She knows it’s wise to think positively. 

Dorothea hums the tune of their latest song, and Petra quickly joins in, nudging Edelgard to do so too. It’s not long before they’re belting at the top of their lungs, grateful that their managers aren’t home to scold them for misusing their voices. Petra tries to do the point choreography, but slams her hand into the wall. They all laugh and keep singing, approaching the chorus. 

_“Trust me— I will make you crazy!”_

+

“Tell us about Claude,” says Byleth. Hilda bristles. Her relationship, for the most part, is private. If she wanted to publicize it, she would write lengthy Instagram captions about how Claude is always with her, even when he’s not, and all of that insufferable nonsense. 

When she went back home to see her family and take care of her dying father, Claude stayed in a hotel nearby, saying the price wasn’t important. When Holst told her he always knew she would make it big and Hilda’s fingernails dug into her palms and her eyes turned pink from crying in the kitchen, Claude was the one who picked her up and took her on a drive. When she had to get away from it all, after her father’s funeral, Claude booked an impromptu trip to Sreng. He was even there when she adopted her cat!

“Claude’s great,” Hilda says stiffly, then tries to relax and remember that it’s just an interview, and she can lie if she has to, “He’s preparing a single right now.”

“I’m excited!” Flayn interjects, “Claude has such a beautiful voice.”

He really does. It’s a little raspy, but he doesn’t rely on that aspect to bring life and emotion to his songs. His range is impeccable. If he wanted, Hilda is sure Claude could do more than idoldom. Lorenz, on the other hand, sticks to what works for him. His range is limited, but he still works to improve the quality of his voice. 

“We’ll get to hear it soon!” Hilda thrusts two thumbs up at the camera nearest to her, “His song is almost as good as _Pink_!”

Flayn and Byleth laugh. Another point for Hilda, she thinks, and grins, mostly to herself.

“You’ve always been so funny,” Byleth says, and Hilda still can’t discern if her voice is just monotonous or terribly sarcastic, “do you have any funny stories about Claude?”

“Ooh, yes!” Flayn cuts in again, “Tell us something personal, that nobody else knows!”

What could Hilda say? That Claude has a traditional Almyran tattoo down his spine? That’s not what they want to hear. How he devised the whole scheme to get himself, Lorenz, and Hilda out of their company? How he would storm into offices and not come out for hours, trying to get their old company to loosen their grip on the two of them? That would be the day. 

“When he eats, he always makes a big mess,” Hilda smirks, “and he makes noises when he really enjoys his food.”

It’s the best she can come up with on the spot. But it truly is a cute, endearing quirk he has, even if other people give him strange looks when they’re at a restaurant. 

Byleth’s expression finally cracks, and she gives a small smile.

+

“It’s too much, again,” Felix huffs, frustrated with PRDE’s stylist for the nth time. She always gives him eyeliner that’s too thick and too black and too winged, but the other men never get the same treatment. Dimitri’s makeup is natural shades of brown, and his eyeliner is even brown. Sylvain’s makeup is purple with a hint of glitter to catch the light and give him that puppy-like look, and Ashe’s… Ashe isn’t even wearing anything on his eyes! How is it fair?

“Don’t touch it,” she says strongly, but Felix’s finger hovers threateningly above his eye. She sucks in a breath.

“Take it off,” Felix punctuates each word, “or I will.” 

“Felix,” Dimitri snaps, pushing his embroidered eyepatch up (who the hell gives someone an eyepatch as an accessory?) “you should be more respectful.”

“Fuck off. It looks awful,” Felix doesn’t even bother turning to give Dimitri a death glare. Ashe puts a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, and Dedue’s arms cross. Sylvain wanders over to take a look at Felix’s makeup, and has to stifle a laugh. 

That’s the final straw, and Felix jumps out of the chair, grabs his coat, and says he’ll be back in fifteen. 

He finds himself on the backside of the building. It’s raining, and he can hear another group rehearsing inside, muffled. He feels sorry for the people living across the street, having to deal with insane fans and loud music shows every week. A quarter of the way through his cigarette, the door opens, and there’s Sylvain, still in his normal clothes as their incapable stylist hadn’t dressed him yet. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says. 

Goddess, he’s so dumb Felix can’t stand it. In response, he offers Sylvain his cigarette. It’s never certain whether he’ll take it or not, but today he takes it, inhales, holds his breath, and exhales through his nose, never breaking eye contact with Felix. The rainclouds make his chestnut eyes gleam. How is that even possible?

“Is it asking too much to not wear this shit every day?” Felix asks Sylvain, asks the rain.

“No,” Sylvain seldom sides with the stylists, “and you’re right, it looks pretty bad.”

He pretends to lick his index finger and pretends to rub Felix’s eye. 

“Thanks,” Felix says around another exhale, then rests his temple on Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain’s arm slides around him so naturally, and his hands rub circles into his waist like it’s what they’re meant to do. 

They’ve always been a little different from the others. Felix used to say it was because they’ve known each other the longest, but that’s not true, given Dimitri. Then he used to say it was because they share a room in their dorm. But now, he’s not so sure. 

Under different circumstances, he can easily imagine himself tilting his chin up to kiss Sylvain. How he would taste. The thought leaves his mind as quickly as it entered. He can’t afford to think like that, not when PRDE is one of the most popular groups and gaining more and more traction. 

“It’s not because you’re Dagdan,” Sylvain clarifies, “if you were thinking that.” 

“Can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind,” Felix admits. 

This wasn’t Felix’s first choice. Originally, he was a choreographer, then convinced to post his videos online, and scouted from there when a video of him singing was posted on one of his colleague’s Instagram stories.

He remembers meeting Dimitri again for the first time in years, coming back to Fódlan from Dagda. He remembers how Dimitri’s hair had grown so long, and how he always sported obscure accessories that the press were eager to write about. How he pitched his idea to have Felix join his theoretical group, and later Sylvain, Ashe and Dedue were added to the lineup and Felix found himself sleeping in Dimitri’s bed while Dimitri doodled their lion mascot and logo and brainstormed names to call their group. That Dimitri still exists, but that Felix may not. 

Felix sighs.

“It feels like I’m—” He cuts himself off before he can say more. Why jeopardize the spot he’s in? He has everything he could possibly need. Some days are like a dream, and Felix is trying to run but he’s getting nowhere and his knees only fall deeper into the quicksand and he fears he’s going to choke on it instead of breathing, but other days are good and he can feel the improvement in the testament of his sore muscles and aching throat. 

“I know,” whispers Sylvain, and that’s all he needs to say. 

Felix finishes his cigarette, and before he can light another, Sylvain is pulling him inside and muttering to the stylist, who begrudgingly comes around with makeup remover and a pointed cotton swab. 

Sylvain changes into his stage clothing last, an intricate ensemble of leather and studs and chains and crushed blue velvet and he looks like royalty. It is the concept of this album, after all. Their makeup artist, making one good decision that day, decides to sit Felix back in front of the mirror, and give him a smokey eye look that accentuates his natural, fox-like face. 

“Let’s give a good performance tonight,” Dimitri says. 

He comes around the sofa, ruffles the hair at the back of Felix’s neck, and hugs him from behind. Felix doesn’t try to pry him off.

+

“What does being an artist mean to you?” asks Byleth after Hilda performs a short cover of 1Love’s most recent comeback, and a number of dances at double tempo. 

Hilda blinks twice, cycling through all of the answers she prepared in her head. Years of media training and she still can't come up with a genuine answer. What a stupid question.

“It’s a way to communicate,” Hilda admits, cursing the instant she decided to be open in the interview, “it’s what I’ve been doing since I can remember. Without this career path, I wouldn’t have met… anyone. I don’t know what I am, if not an artist. It’s my entire life.” 

She sounds like an _idiot_.

“Actually, I change my answer,” Hilda asserts, “being an artist is my life, but it’s also my living. We all have to make money, right?” 

“What would you do if you weren’t an idol?” Byleth fires back.

“Nothing,” Hilda says, “Honestly, I don’t have any other skills. I’m an artist because I love it, but also because I think I have to be.”

“If you could choose something else to do, what would it be?” Flayn asks, fidgeting with her cue cards, uncomfortable and it’s all Hilda’s fault.

“I think it would be nice to be a student,” Hilda thinks back to her third release, a cute concept premised on being a schoolgirl and singing about first loves, how must be nothing like the real thing, “I’ve always wanted to experience university from a student’s perspective.” 

“How interesting,” Byleth comments, “but aren’t you already a student?”

“Yes. Online, though,” Hilda pouts a little, hoping the cameras pick up on it and zoom in on her face, maybe the editors will add a cute sound effect to bring out the expression, “I’d like to be able to walk around the campus, like a normal student.” 

“You’d look so cute in one of the uniforms!” Flayn exclaims. Should Hilda even bother trying to express why she wants to be able to, at the very least, show her face in public without worries? Or perhaps Flayn gets it, and doesn’t want to ruin the interview. That’s a possibility. She doesn’t have the heart to tell Flayn that universities don’t require a uniform. 

Flayn nearly jumps out of her seat in excitement at of the thought of Hilda in a uniform. Speaking of seats, Hilda’s lower back is on fire. What is the set decorating budget in this place, anyway? For a pair of interviewers so renowned, one would think they’d have enough cash to invest in a comfortable seat.   
  
Hilda knows she should cut the pair some slack. Of course, they, and all of her fans, want to know what she’s been up to since her sudden departure from _Goldn Ent_. But do they even have a right to know? Do they have authority in their personal life? It feels like Byleth looks Hilda up and down, but her eyes remain trained on Hilda’s. 

“How do you deal with hate? There must be a lot, considering your relationship.” comes Flayn’s next question. Before she can stop herself, Hilda’s face contorts and her eyes obviously roll. Her fans are infinitely more supportive than hateful, but there’s a reason she only uses one SNS platform. 

Earlier in the week, someone in the crew that filmed her comeback stage, a fucking netizen, published an article about Hilda’s performance on their personal blog. It went viral instantly. 

_Valentine, Unmasked._ , the title read. 

_I met briefly with Hilda Valentine (Hilda V. Goneril) on the last Wednesday of the year, a rainy and depressing day, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by the way Valentine’s smile lit up the room. She looked like a doll come to life, a caricature of a mid-2000s pop star complete with a baby pink ensemble and stars in her eyes. When she speaks, it’s hard to tell whether she’s lying through her teeth, or baring her soul to you. Perhaps it’s whatever you need to hear at the moment._

_While her singing and dancing talent is undeniable, she’s got an edge to her, and I’m loathe to admit that I felt intimidated by her very presence._

Hilda, while she tried not to interact much with netizen content, couldn’t stop her thumb from scrolling. It detailed how they watched her interact with Claude, how human it was and how it made them realize she wasn’t a walking product. She felt her top lip curl up and skimmed the rest. 

_In this moment, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Imagine that! I’m pitying Fódlan’s It Girl. I’m pitying the girl who has everything— fame, fortune, von Riegan, Gloucester, a brand ambassador for Casagranda Beauty, millions of likes and followers... I pity her. Under different circumstances, I would feel nothing but envy._

_Hilda Valentine, underneath the mask, is a young woman who spent her formative years in practice studios and recording booths, on stage and posing for countless cameras. She’s probably spent more time sitting in a makeup chair and listening to others fuss over her appearance than shaking her shoulders in a music video._

“I don’t deal with it,” she says, “I feel sorry for them. And I don’t read the comments. Life’s too short to worry about what people say.” 

“Advice that many of us could benefit from,” Byleth’s expressions are always difficult to read, but she looks almost hurt as she speaks. Hilda should pay attention to her own advice.

“Absolutely.”

+

Three in the morning. A cluttered, cramped studio overrun with empty boxes of sweets and forgotten, loose papers containing rejected lyrics. Annette Dominic sips an iced coffee that’s more sugar than caffeine, and pauses the song she’s working on, sliding her headphones off her ears to hang around her neck.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best?” 

“Once or twice,” Mercedes says, pausing to reach into her bag, surprising Annette with a scone and a muffin. Obviously, Annette takes the muffin. She folds her legs under each other so she’s sitting cross-legged in the swivel chair, and separates the top of the muffin from the bottom. Mercedes pulls up the folding chair, sitting beside Annette and blinking away whatever sleep is left in her eyes. 

“I would literally give you my life,” Annette says around the food in her mouth, “for bringing me this.”

“Don’t worry about it at all,” Mercedes grins, just happy she could be helpful, “show me what you’re working on?”

“It’s not that good yet,” Annette mutters as she slides the player back to the beginning of the song, “but it will be. Guess how much the beat cost?”

“Oh, Goddess,” Mercedes’ voice is laced with worry, “how much?” 

“Three. Thousand,” Annette rubs at her face, a little distraught, “Like, I could afford it, but…” 

“It had better perform well,” Mercedes finishes for her. Annette’s head seems to shake, rattling with anxiety, as she nods. 

“Uh-huh.” 

Mercedes’ phone buzzes. It’s a text from Marianne, saying they just stopped at a convenience store and will be at the studio in a few minutes. Deciding to wait for the other three girls to show up, Mercedes and Annette take solace in the ten minutes of solitude, of quiet, of sipping sugary drinks in the middle of the night. There’s a futon that hardly fits in the room, where Mercedes moves her bag to as Annette stands up, knees popping and back cracking. She bends down to touch her toes, groaning at the feeling. 

When she rises again, Mercedes takes her into her arms and Annette is at a loss for words. She presses her face into her neck and breathes in deeply. Mercedes always smells like the inside of a patisserie, like gingerbread and chocolate chip and raspberry macarons. Against her cheek, Annette can feel Mercedes giggle, then press a chaste kiss to the top of Annette’s head. In Annette’s chest, her heart beats a hundred miles per minute. From the sugar. 

Marianne, Bernadetta, and Lysithea all file in soon after, and small talk is made for the first minute or so, before Annette sits back down in her chair and unplugs her headphones. 

“Okay, so, it’s all my voice because it’s a demo, but I’ve written and printed the lyrics so you guys can follow along,” Annette passes the other girls a sheet of paper, “and don’t judge me for my rapping.” 

“Your rapping is just fine,” Marianne says, and Lysithea snorts beside her. 

“No it’s not,” Annette concedes, “which is why _you’re_ our rapper. Anyway.” 

She turns the volume up and presses play on the demo. The song has the foundation of a textbook pop song, but an overlay of Dagdan influence and a dance break that would normally be electronic, but in her version, is a cacophony of ambient sounds with a blend of traditional instruments on top. Annette’s not a choreographer, but she can imagine the right one could come up with something visually stunning for the twenty-five seconds of music. In her open notebook, Annette writes _Felix Fraldarius_ as a reminder to herself to text or call him soon. Underneath his name, she writes _prop? Fan, ribbon, fabric?_

“Annette, that was beautiful,” Bernadetta compliments, “I think it has something really special.”

“It’s different from our usual stuff,” Lysithea says, like she’s not entirely sure what to make of it, “I’d like to see the choreography first.” 

“Right!” Annette exclaims— it must be the sugar— and swivels back around, “I do, too.” 

“Remember, it’s not the final piece,” Mercedes takes a bag of candies from Lysithea, who somehow devoured almost the whole bag in the three minutes of the song. 

“We still want it to do well on the charts,” Marianne says, “and we can keep working on it.”

“Of course,” Annette looks at the computer screen and feels her stomach churn. It’s so much work, and she’s so, so, _so_ tired, “Do you guys want to try singing your parts, or wait until tomorrow?” 

Bernadetta, who never seems to sleep, or is at least nocturnal, is the first to sit beside Annette and set up a microphone in front of her. The five of them don’t finish until the sun is up and Lysithea has utterly passed out on the futon. Perks of being the youngest. 

On their way out, Annette hangs back to save the file, back it up, and save it again. She has just locked the door to her studio when she's stopped. 

“Huh-Hanneman!” Annette yelps, “Don’t scare me like that!”

“I’m sorry,” Hanneman says, though his face is unreadable and Annette can’t tell if he’s genuinely apologetic, “Were you up all night?” 

“Of course. I always am.” 

Hanneman frowns. Annette fidgets awkwardly and resists the urge to check her phone. 1Love was just given back their phone privileges recently, and she doesn’t want to ruin it for the other girls. 

“I’d like to hear what you’re working on the next time you’re in.” 

“Should be tomorrow night. I’ll call you.” 

“Please. I’ll start contacting producers to send it to.”

Annette’s grip on the keys turns to iron, knuckles white, “Producers? Why?”

“Why?” Hanneman echoes incredulously, “We can’t release a song that’s unmastered. It has to go through professionals.” 

“I am a professional,” Annette says from between her teeth, “I’ve been writing music since I was six.”

Sleep-deprived, Annette inhales shakily, fearing she’ll say something she regrets. The keys dig into her palms almost painfully.

“Annette, please don’t take it personally. It’s just to ensure the song’s completion and success.” 

“I understand,” Annette says weakly, “Can I go now?” 

“You may,” Hanneman watches as she goes, “Remember to call me.”

“Right.”

+

At the end of the interview, Hilda performs Pink on the small stage adjacent to the set. Under the spotlights, her outfit shines like a beacon. She hits every note, every dance move, every wink, and every cheeky grin perfectly. 

Backstage, she sheds the outfit like she’s a snake shedding its skin. It feels heavenly. 

+

Ferdinand von Aegir and all twenty-something inches of his copper hair drape over a crimson chaise. A camera, wide lensed and worth thousands, films him from an aerial point of view as he mouths the lyrics to his verse in Eclipse’s unreleased second single. Dramatic by nature, Hubert finds the scene to give him secondhand embarrassment as he watches Ferdinand’s acting on the monitor, then glances at the set to watch Ferdinand as he reaches up towards the camera lens. 

“How long before he is scouted for a drama?” Linhardt asks dryly, arms crossed as he, too, watches the monitor. The comment makes Hubert suppress a smile. It’s not that he dislikes Ferdinand— quite the opposite— he’s just… always theatrical. The attribute makes for melodramatic music videos, so it can’t hurt, but it makes Hubert and Linhardt look as if they’re not trying hard enough. 

“I give it a year,” Hubert replies, adjusting his collar with a black-gloved hand. One of Linhardt’s eyebrows shoots up.

“A whole year? Six months at most,” Linhardt turns his back to the monitor, unable to watch any more of Ferdinand’s superior and thrilling acting, “Talent agents will watch our stages and variety shows. They’ll see that he has _it_ , and we don’t.”

“There is no point in fretting over it,” Hubert says evenly, “he signed the contract, same as you and I.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Linhardt mutters, toying with a loose strand of hair, “but everything seems so volatile right now. I fear he will leave us to our devices.” 

“Don’t think about it,” is Hubert’s entirely unhelpful advice. The pair watch Ferdinand finish his take in silence, until he’s getting up from his position on the ground, and coming over to them, glowing brighter than the fluorescent overhead lights, his hair flying about. There’s not even any wind, for the Goddess’ sake!

“That better have looked good,” Ferdinand huffs, shoving the tastefully rustled sheet off his body and slipping a robe on, “because I am not doing it again.” 

“Did you deplete your store of melodrama for the day?” Linhardt asks, and Hubert closes his eyes. 

“Oh, shut up,” Ferdinand says without any bite, sinking into the chair and massaging at his neck. Linhardt, beside himself, smirks. 

“It was good,” Hubert confirms, wondering just how he became the mediator in their group. It must have something to do with the job he had for so long, waiting on a now-disbanded girl group. 

“Thank you, Hubert. At least somebody appreciates my efforts.” 

Linhardt’s lips part like he’s going to bully Ferdinand more, but before he can say anything, Hubert gives him a glare that has him stuffing the words back down. Ferdinand, thankfully, doesn’t notice, too busy hunching over himself and rubbing his shoulders. Somebody calls Hubert’s name and points to the other side of the music video’s set. He straightens his back.

“Linhardt, if you would refrain from bothering him,” Hubert says pointedly, and then he’s gone to take Ferdinand’s place and begin his portion of the shoot. 

Linhardt gingerly sets his hands on Ferdinand’s shoulders after pulling the gloves off with his teeth, giving him a half-hearted massage. Ferdinand sits up slightly, aching to rub his face but knowing that he would get yelled at by someone. 

“Sorry. You know I only mean to tease.” 

“I’m aware.” Ferdinand says airily, “It’s fine.” 

The issue is dropped. Linhardt’s fingers work at Ferdinand’s knots as they watch Hubert awkwardly smize and lip-sync through the first take of his solo shoot. He makes a point not to look at the two of them, knowing it would be embarrassing for all three men. 

“He’s so cute when he doesn’t know what to do,” Ferdinand sighs. Linhardt’s face contorts into an appalled expression. Does he mean Hubert? The same Hubert that they’re both scrutinizing right now? 

“I’m sorry?”

“In an endearing way.” 

“Um,” Linhardt’s fingers still on Ferdinand’s bare back, “right.” 

He goes back to observing Hubert, wondering just how someone can find that man cute or endearing. In just a few minutes, the set had completely changed, and the side of it, where Hubert is filming now, has been decorated to look like a balcony, adorned with black and red roses. Hubert currently leans over the balustrade, looking into the depths of the camera lens while reciting his lines. 

For this single, their concept is the passage of time and long lost loves, using eclipse imagery to emulate their group’s name. Ferdinand represents the sun, obvious by the light makeup and golden hair he’s tying back at the moment. Linhardt is the moon, and Hubert is the resulting darkness, as depicted by the dark makeup and intricate black blouse he wears. Admittedly, it looks quite good on him, and both Linhardt and Ferdinand anticipate watching the final result. 

Hours later, it’s finally Linhardt’s turn. His hair, shoulder-length, emerald, and coiled, obstructs his face for the initial close up shot that’s only from the neck up, as a white spotlight darts around his face, highlighting the coloured contacts and pale foundation he wears. A few more scenes are shot. One, he’s sitting in darkness and cradling a miniature moon in his palm, hardly the size of a softball. Another, he’s in an empty bathtub, absentmindedly plucking at a dead rose. Finally, in the last of his solo shots, he is looking over his shoulder, slowly shrugging off his coat. When it’s completely off, he raises his eyes to the camera and smirks. Who said Ferdinand was the only one able to pull out the theatrics?

With the music video shoot halfway done, there’s a short break that they’re allowed, during which Linhardt immediately falls asleep, using his arms as a pillow. 

“He reminds me of a kitten,” Ferdinand says, sneaking a bite of a protein bar that he’s not allowed to have. Technicalities. Hubert moves inconspicuously to shield the crew from spotting Ferdinand’s chewing. 

“You’ve mentioned.” 

“Have I?” Ferdinand breaks another piece off, offering it to Hubert, who takes it and seems to inhale it. Ferdinand’s not even sure if he chews.

“A number of times.” 

“Hm.” 

“Do you like our song?” Ferdinand asks suddenly, and Hubert lets a knowing grin slip onto his face.

“Actually, I do. But, I must admit, hearing it for six hours straight has begun to give me a headache.”

“It’s not just you.”

In relative silence, Ferdinand finishes eating, and Hubert can feel his own stomach begin to moan. It shouldn’t be long until the entire shoot is done, as they only need to film the choreography in three separate locations, and then a small number of group scenes. Four more hours, at most. 

“I hope that this is worth it,” says Linhardt as he wakes up from his nap, a crew member having shaken him awake. 

Hubert is not a religious man by any means, and neither are Ferdinand or Linhardt. That doesn’t stop him from saying, “I will pray to the Goddess that we receive our first win.”

+

Claude shows up to the Music Time building before Hilda even arrives. The moment she spots him, she lets out a long sigh of relief and wraps her arms around him as tight as she can. 

“Woah,” Claude almost stumbles back, “Did you miss me, or something?”

“Or something,” Hilda murmurs, squeezing her eyes closed and appreciating the moment that he holds her, how she fits into his palms like it’s what she was made for. 

“How’d the interview go?” Claude asks, leading her to her designated dressing room. Her stylists have already arrived, and she’s still wearing the same makeup as earlier, meaning they’ll have to take it all off only to reapply it. 

“I think it was okay. Byleth freaks me out a bit, though,” she admits, lowering her voice in case anyone else looking to make some quick cash overhears, “I’m not used to this anymore.”

“I know,” Claude says, frowning a little, and it’s so cute that Hilda can’t help but cup his chin in her palm and peck his lips, quick and chaste, “but you’ll get used to— oh!”

“Hopefully.”

Hilda’s ensemble for tonight is also pink, but unlike the look she was wearing earlier, is definitely more performance-wear. It’s utterly covered in glitter, and even has a mesh part around her midriff. It’s sure to attract attention. 

To save time, she slips into the nylons and safety shorts, then has Claude zip up the dress for her. He lifts her hair up, draping all of it over her left shoulder as he leans in to fiddle with the final clasp. He smells clean, a hint of spice, and Hilda looks over at the mirror to see just how close they are. She cranes her neck back to expose more of her skin, and Claude’s lips only brush against her neck before her usual makeup artist throws the dressing room door open. 

In the moments the door is open, Hilda can year the well-established boy group, PRDE, warming up their voices in the dressing room adjacent to her own. 

Felix stands in front of the full-body mirror, moving every muscle with careful intention as he watches himself. There’s a part in their choreography that requires an expertly rehearsed twist of the body, and he’s had difficulties with it as of late. Ashe comes up behind him, infuriatingly tall. 

“What have you been eating?” Felix asks, the question coming out like an accusation. Ashe must either ignore it, or he knows that’s just how Felix is, and he smiles.

“I didn’t eat anything. Try it like this,” Ashe sets one foot further back than Felix’s, and he follows along. He hates to admit it, but it helps, and the move looks infinitely more powerful. 

“Good!” 

“Thanks,” Felix says, and continues practicing the twist until he’s certain there will be a crick in his neck. 

Sylvain is the next to take up more space in the mirror, calling over Dedue, Dimitri, and Ashe to take a photo.

“Right now?” Felix asks, but doesn’t complain when Sylvain throws an arm around his shoulders and takes a quick burst of photos of just the two of them. He swallows.

“Of course.”

“We’re about to go on stage,” Dedue points out. 

“Then let’s make this quick,” Sylvain points his phone and all three of its cameras at the mirror. 

After years in an idol group that’s active on social media, Felix knows what poses work for him, and he’s gotten over his hatred of having his photo taken. More out of necessity than learning to like it, and although he wouldn’t admit it, he kind of likes it. Kneeling on one knee, Felix fixes his expression into a half-smirk that he knows their fans love so much. He throws up a V sign, showing off the silver and navy nail polish on his fingernails. 

Across the hallway, Edelgard leans far back in her chair, trying to catch a glimpse of PRDE, but can only see their backs as Sylvain takes a mirror selfie. Dorothea follows her line of sight.

“He was texting me a few days ago,” Dorothea says, fanning her face in order to help the eyelash glue dry. Edelgard averts her gaze.

“Which one?” Edelgard fiddles with a button on her top.

“Sylvain. He said he wanted to take me on a date.” 

Petra, who’s hair is currently being expertly fishtail braided, asks, “Are you going to go?”

“Fuck no,” that pulls a laugh out of Edelgard. She doesn’t think she would go on a date with Sylvain, either. While he’s kind, and easy to approach, he’s earned a reputation as a bit of a serial dater among female idols. She’s heard rumours that he’s taken some men out on dates too, but those should just stay rumours. Edelgard prefers to not be so concerned with her colleague's romantic life. 

“Besides,” Dorothea continues, “we all know he’s too obsessed with Felix to seriously date anyone.”

“You might have a point,” Edelgard recalls meeting the PRDE members when they were rookies, how Felix seemed to be glued to Sylvain’s side. That hasn’t changed much in the years that have gone by. 

Petra’s hair is set in place with hairspray and some magical sort of serum that Edelgard wishes she could purchase in a store, and then the three women are being whisked off to the backstage, where they’re made to wait while I.Z.V— Ignatz— performs a ballad on the stage. When it’s 4%'s turn to film, replacing Ignatz’ place on the stage, Edelgard thinks that their song is admittedly quite good. Not good enough to secure a win, but it’s catchy. Although their choreography is lackluster from playing it safe, they can’t be faulted for it. Edelgard wonders if they’ll have troubles with sales as a coed group. 

Petra rests her chin on Edelgard’s shoulder, “It kind of slaps.”

“Huh?” Edelgard’s eyebrows furrow, “Who taught you that?” 

“Dorothea.” 

Dorothea shrugs nonchalantly, “It’s worth knowing.” 

“I suppose so.” 

4% exits the stage and Caspar, an old friend Edelgard knew during her trainee days, holds a hand up for Edelgard to give him a high five. Ingrid, another member that Edelgard vaguely recognizes, looks appalled and begins a tirade about how Caspar doesn’t understand manners or respecting their seniors. Ingrid apologises on Caspar’s behalf, speaking formally, but Edelgard doesn’t have time to reply as Dorothea laces their arms together and drags her to the centre of the stage. 

Edelgard gives her head a shake. She folds her arms across her chest so they cross, palms on her shoulders. Petra kneels down beside Edelgard’s left, balancing on one knee, and Dorothea stands on Edelgard’s other side, raising her arms to position. 

Their song shakes the entire stage when it begins. 

Contrasting their dark and sexy concept, 1Love takes the stage next, performing their new song, and Annette channels all of her negative thoughts into giving the best show she possibly can, remembering the way Hanneman patronized her, the way she agonized over the traditional beats for weeks, the way her feet bled as she practised the choreography in new shoes, not yet broken in, because her others had literally fallen apart. 

Near the end of the song, she shares a translucent folding fan with Lysithea in a complicated and eye-catching dance break, courtesy of Felix’s choreography and teaching skills, twirling across the stage towards Mercedes. Marianne emerges from behind eight fans to rap her verse, executing it perfectly. At the end of the recording, Annette is sweating buckets, but she still gives the cameras the sweetest smile she can muster, chest heaving and beads of sweat rolling down the side of her face. Lysithea is typically the dedicated ending fairy, but Annette serves as a backup in the case that Lysithea’s shot doesn’t turn out. 

PRDE is up next, powerful dance moves and gorgeous costumes on full display. 

The five men move like they’re a singular autonomous machine, hours upon hours of practice put into perfecting every millisecond of their choreography, each member a part of the machine. During the hook, Dedue, Sylvain, and Felix all lift up Dimitri while Ashe sneaks in behind to fasten a crown to his head, a swift move that took hours to execute properly. They set Dimitri back upon his feet, centering him as the bridge leads into the chorus. It’s only appropriate that Dimitri is in the middle, seeing as he’s the leader. 

Under the burning hot stage lights, Felix’s makeup glimmers in the most alluring way. The cameras know he’s even more handsome up close, zooming in on his face as he smirks into the lens and then whips his head in the other direction as he moves across the stage. The final measures of the song requires Dimitri’s crown to fall and Dedue to surreptitiously throw it into the wings, as Dimitri drops down to his knees and holds his head in his hands like there are voices in his mind that refuse to allow him access to his thoughts. In the very last seconds, Dimitri rises once more with an expression of agony, one hand cradling his face while his other hand grasps at his elbow. He wasn’t always this good at stage expressions and acting, but which enough coaching, he’s become a natural. 

The song ends, and Felix feels half of the cameras on him, hoping his mic cover isn’t soaked and dripping with sweat, he does what he must and winks at the camera that has the best angle of him, tilting his head slightly to catch the wet-looking highlight that’s been applied to his cheeks. 

PRDE exits stage left and rush back to their dressing room, where Dimitri hardly makes it to the attached restroom before he collapses and dry heaves. 

Dedue and Felix are the first to rush in to make sure he’s not dying. Ashe hovers by the door watching worriedly, and Sylvain searches through Dedue’s bag for anything. A fucking bottle of water would suffice. 

“Stupid. Idiot,” Sylvain hears Felix muttering, “You don’t take care of yourself. Did you even eat today?”

Dimitri doesn’t answer. And then he does, “No.”

On the flatscreen that’s mounted on the wall, the raw footage of their performance plays. After almost force-feeding Dimitri, they rest on the couches, watching Eclipse perform. 

It’s halfway through their song, easy and smooth on the ears, and Ferdinand is absolutely stunning. Linhardt’s also the visual of the group with a sweet, crooning head voice, and Hubert comes in last with a mellow rap, during which he also looks handsome, odd as it may sound. PRDE watches in relative silence. 

“This group is very handsome,” remarks Dedue. 

That is, until the most shocking part of their choreography. Hubert stands in front of the other two men while, from behind, Linhardt pulls on Hubert’s jacket’s lapels enough to expose almost his entire chest. Dimitri gasps quietly. Ferdinand’s hands, ungloved, snake around Hubert to reach inside of his coat, caressing his bare chest, and running the slope of his nose up the side of Hubert’s neck. Dimitri gasps audibly. 

“Is this allowed?” Sylvain asks, hopefully not expecting an answer. 

“I...” says Ashe. 

“Overrated,” Felix throws his own opinion out. 

“I liked it,” says Dimitri, because he always has to be different from Felix. It must be compulsive. What a beast of a man, Felix thinks.

“Hell yeah,” Sylvain gives Dimitri a high five. 

Then, finally, finally, it’s time for Hilda’s recording. 

4%, I.Z.V, and Eclipse all hover around backstage to catch a glimpse of her performance, pink lights flitting around the stage during the instrumental chorus of the song. Royal Flush, 1Love, and PRDE watch from their dressing rooms, getting their makeup and hair touched up, outfits adjusted, sipping water that’s cold but not cold enough. 

Hilda’s voice catches, hiccupping on the word 'confidence’ but with enough training, she simply stops singing and doesn’t let the panic show on her face while she lip-syncs the rest of the line. As the final chorus of the song approaches, confetti cannons set off, showering the stage in white, silver, and pink plastic streamers. 

She loves performing, this much is true, but it always felt better, fuller, with Claude and Lorenz on stage with her. Still, she gives her smile, her cute finger hearts, and a quick wink to the camera, then takes the shortest break she thinks she’s ever been given, before all of the groups are ushered on stage, shuffled around— tallest in the back, shortest in the front, to present the winner with a trophy. At the ALLIANCE building, Hilda has an entire shelf of them

The MCs, two rookies Hilda feels bad for not recognizing, give a short speech while Hilda somewhat zones out. She lets her eyes wander into the curtains where Claude waits, hands tucked into his pockets while he leans his shoulder against the wall. No one would dare disturb him. She looks across the idols on the stage, some of which she recognizes, some of which she does. Felix Fraldarius chews on the inside of his cheek, and Ferdinand von Aegir clutches his groupmates’ hands where the cameras don’t see. Edelgard von Hresvelg runs a hand down her pure white hair, making it look intentional but Hilda knows better. It’s an act of anxiety. Annette Dominic picks anxiously at her acrylic nail, eyes glistening bright blue. 

The salty, glob-like tears in Annette’s eyes spill over as 1Love wins the trophy. Hilda is the first to walk over, hug, and congratulate her. She’s also the last to leave the stage as 1Love begin an a capella version of their song. 

Lorenz is waiting for the couple in a matte black, window-tinted SUV when they emerge from the side of the building, copious amounts of fans yelling, taking pictures every millisecond. Their pictures won’t turn out well. Claude opens the door for her and helps Hilda into the backseat, and at once, she’s struck with the scent of roses— Lorenz’ cologne that he religiously rubs into his wrist and neck every day. The sun is almost all the way down, only peeking over the horizon to watch Hilda sink into the leather seat.

Lorenz kisses the corner of her mouth, “How was recording?”

“Feels like I’m gonna collapse,” Hilda answers, but still throws an arm around him, toying with a silky purple strand of his hair. Once Claude is sure the doors are locked and the partition is rolled up, he leans over Hilda and steals a kiss from Lorenz for himself. 

“Can’t let Hil’ be the only one you kiss tonight,” Claude winks, settling back in his spot. 

“Hush, you,” says Lorenz, but his cheeks colour a certain rosy red. 

Hilda rolls her neck back until her head rests on Claude’s shoulder, rather uncomfortable against her cheek, but she can’t bring herself to care, mind and body exhausted. She curls her fingers around the nape of Lorenz’ neck, plays with the collar of his cashmere sweater, presses her hot palm against his skin. Unknowingly, a soft grin pulls at his lips. He’s always liked absentminded touching— Hilda and Claude have known for years. 

They don’t mention the fact that Hilda didn’t win. Lorenz talks about the meetings he attended earlier in the afternoon and his subsequent vocal lesson held at the company building, and Claude talks about the gossip he heard floating about at the interview. It’s nothing unusual, nothing to worry about, so Hilda zones out the best she can.

In the backseat of their private ride home, Hilda finally drifts off, legs draped over Lorenz' thighs and leaning flush against Claude's chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> PRDE: Dimitri, Felix, Dedue, Ashe, Sylvain (Mirotic - TVXQ, Get Down - Boys' Republic, Married To The Music - SHINee)  
> Royal Flush: Edelgard, Dorothea, Petra (1 2 3 - Purfles, Vista - FIESTAR, Set Me Free - Ladies' Code)  
> 1Love: Annette, Bernadetta, Marianne, Mercedes, Lysithea (Rough - GFriend, Power Up - Red Velvet, Feel Special - Twice)  
> Eclipse: Ferdinand, Hubert, Linhardt (The 7th Sense - NCT U, The Closer - VIXX, Want - Taemin)  
> 4%: Ingrid, Leonie, Caspar, Raphael (Oh NaNa, You in Me - KARD)  
> Hilda (Red - Hyuna, Blue Moon - Kyungri)  
> 3L: Lorenz, Claude, Hilda (365 Fresh - Triple H, Knock - Nasty Nasty)
> 
> twitter @ spiritdrops


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